


writing in ink or in blood (it's the same either way)

by cakesnake, nosecoffee



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Newspaper, Attachments AU, Comedy, Crushes, Emails, Everyone's Pretty Normal Except For Dirk, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, I swear this is funny, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kidnapping, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Angst, Mild Illegal Activity, Mystery, Referenced Minor Character Death, Romance, Spring News, The Author Regrets Nothing, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 04:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13696461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakesnake/pseuds/cakesnake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosecoffee/pseuds/nosecoffee
Summary: From:d.gentl@springnews.orgTo:k.adams@springnews.orgSubject:I Have A QuestionCan I play minesweeper when I'm not working?k.adams:Shouldn’t you be investigating?d.gentl:So...is that a no?(Almost An Attachments AU)





	writing in ink or in blood (it's the same either way)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Once And For All" from Newsies
> 
> Please be aware that there are a few jokes relating to suicide in this fic, and if that will make you uncomfortable we apologise.

**From:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** if I have to write another article about trump I will scream

I don’t understand why this joke of a human being is being given the time of day, let alone media attention and the chance to be president.

 **t.brotz:** Please take my job of reviewing mediocre films, masquerading as Oscar contenders. Me Before You was an awful ableist piece of shit. At least this month hasn’t been as bad. Now You See Me 2 was fun to rip to shreds, and Deadpool actually tried. I’d love to rip trump apart on a daily basis.

 **a.brotz:** You don’t even write serious reviews. You wrote ‘If I had to choose between dying by choking on my own drug overdose induced vomit and going to see Me Before You again, I would choose to go and see the movie again, but it would be a close call.’

 **t.brotz:** That’s not a direct quote, but god do I wish that I’d written that

 **a.brotz:** Never would’ve made it through the copy desk.

 **t.brotz:** Francis sent it back several times before I got it to publishing. I had to tone it down a lot.

 **a.brotz:** I’m not even surprised. Stuff like that doesn't pass the breakfast test.

 **t.brotz:** I really don't want to have this argument with you, again.

 **a.brotz:** You have never denied that people would get put off their breakfast while reading your reviews, before heavy editing.

 **t.brotz:** I'm always honest.

 **a.brotz:** You're too honest. I've read the drafted reviews you wrote about the Avengers franchise and just what came out in your barf when you thought about the fuckfest Infinity War was gonna be.

 **t.brotz:** I don't want to talk about this.

 **a.brotz:** Whatever, you absolute coward. I keep getting my pieces sent back for language, but it’s their fault for making me cover the mouldy cheeto.

 **t.brotz:** It’s a really good thing you’re in the opinions column.

 **a.brotz:** How're things at home? You still going to meetings and things?

 **t.brotz:** Yeah, what about you?

 **a.brotz:** I’m working it in, but I’ve been working a lot of nights. Hard to get to them.

 **t.brotz:** Probably why I haven't seen you. Oh, hey, did you see Lydia picked up the Lux DuJour case? Her dad’s gonna chew her out so hard it's gonna be epic.

 **a.brotz:** After all the shit she's done on air, I expect nothing less. This won’t even get her in half as much trouble as the Pepe the Rhino story.

 **t.brotz:** To be fair, there could have been casualties involved in that one.

 **a.brotz:** Casualties schmasualties, it was one run away rhino. Anyways, I need to go and write about gun control. Later, loser.

~

The chair is not necessarily uncomfortable, it’s just not classically comfortable. The back leans back a bit too far, and it’s the kind of thing that Dirk thinks might only be supportive if one sits on the edge of it. Across the heavy wooden desk, Patrick Spring, owner of the largest local news network in Seattle, stares back at him with a grim, and altogether downtrodden look on his face. Behind him, his Editor in Chief, Farah Black, hovers like she is his bodyguard instead.

Patrick leans forward as though to confide something to Dirk, and he can’t help but sit up taller in order to receive this information. “You understand that the situation is sensitive. The only people who will know your true purpose are Ken Adams, Ms Black here, and myself.”

“I understand, I’m not to tell anyone else anything other than my cover.”

“Indeed. Your job, then, is to use the computer system, and start the process of shortlisting individuals. We have informed employees that their emails will start being flagged for language and inappropriate work interactions. You will of course be informing this, sending warnings and such. But you’ll also be looking for mentions of Lydia, or any plot-“

Dirk interrupts, confident in his knowledge of his job here. “I understand Mr Spring. But you, of course, know that I can’t do my work simply through the emails.”

“I know. I’m paying you a lot of money to do this, so I would hope that you wouldn’t just be investigating through the emails.”

Dirk smiles serenely. “Don’t worry, Mr Spring, you will get your daughter back.” He tells him confidently.

“I’m glad that you’re so certain.”

“I’m not certain of anything. But if I’m here, then I’m meant to solve it. Which means Lydia _will_ be returned.”

Patrick Spring leans back in his chair, apparently satisfied, and Farah nods her head, indicating that she is also happy with what she has heard.

“So, where’s my desk?”

~

 **From:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** f.black@springnews.org

 **Subject:** How are you holding up?

Hey, so I heard what happened (I mean, who didn't). How's everything? I know you and Patrick are close and I can only assume you're close with Lydia too. If you need someone to talk to, my doors are always open, and I'm sure Amanda would say the same.

 **f.black:** it's whatever, i guess

 **t.brotz:** Geez, all lowercase. You sound like you need some hard drugs

 **f.black:** Todd, did you not get the memo about the new internet security officer?

 **t.brotz:** The guy who's gonna be reading my emails behind my back? I did get the memo and I think whoever made the executive decision to do that bullshit should shove the memo up their ass.

 **f.black:** you'll be glad to note, then, that the internet security officer role was Patrick’s executive decision.

 **t.brotz:** One of these days you'll forward the shit I say to him and I'll finally be fired.

 **f.black:** but it is not this day. i’m fine, currently. i put it down to lack of sleep and just constant adrenaline.

 **t.brotz:** Makes sense. Look, I have a f@%kton of tea at my house since Amanda went on that rampage and threw my entire liquor cabinet out my bedroom window, if that interests you at all

 **f.black:** better than getting invited out for appletinis by Assistent from the mailroom, again

 **t.brotz:** He's gonna get punched

 **f.black:** one day. i’ll swing by this evening, once i'm done being questioned by the police.

 **t.brotz:** Cool, cool. Awesome.

~

“So, do you have any basic coding knowledge? I’m talking anything, even basic html. Any prior knowledge would be a help.”

Dirk stares at the screen in front of him, confident that he has never seen a computer so big, or so shiny. It’s a little bit unnerving. It looks like no one has ever been in this room, including whoever put the furniture in there. It’s like this entire office was immaculately conceived and then left untouched until they let Dirk in here. Dirk, with his still greasy fingers from the cold pizza he ate earlier. He almost doesn’t want to touch anything for fear of ruining the image.

“I’m afraid I don’t know a lick of coding, Mr Adams.”

“Just Ken is fine. That is a bit of a hurdle, but I’m certain we can find a way around that, so you can still do what you want to here.” Ken looks a little put upon, and a little annoyed, and Dirk knows it’s kind of his fault. He wishes he knew how to fix it. Ken looks like he has more important things to be doing than helping a detective learn to flag certain words in emails. “May I…?”

Ken gestures to the seat Dirk is in, far more comfortable than the one in Patrick Spring’s office, and he realises that Ken wants him to vacate it. He leaps up immediately, and moves out of the way. “Of course.”

Ken sits back and settles in the chair, as though he’s going to be there for a while. And Dirk has the overwhelming feeling that he should go and get coffee for Ken. And for himself. But mostly for the man who seems, at this point, to be doing his job for him.

“What coffee do you drink Ken?” He asks, and Ken immediately stiffens, as though confused. He draws his eyebrows over his eyes; definitely confused then.

“Flat white… extra flat, two sugars, why?”

“Back in a tick!” Dirk tells him, lifts his jacket from the hook on the door, and walks down the equally plain and sparkling hallway, mind set on finding a nearby coffee shop.

“This really isn’t going to take that long!” Ken calls from the office, but Dirk is determined that coffee is the right idea, right now.

~

 **From:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Farah’s coming over to my house, tonight, for tea

I'm gonna fucking die, Amanda. She's coming over. To MY HOUSE. Amanda, what the fuck do I do?

 **a.brotz:** well, first of all. You're going to stop swearing in emails. I’m secretly very afraid of losing my job because some nerd downstairs who works the night shift has decided I should atone for you swearing in your work email. Second of all, you're gonna calm yourself and make tea for her like a normal human being because a) she's a human being whose close friend has gone missing and needs comfort from someone she trusts and you're obviously someone she's chosen, and b) she's out of your league, get over yourself.

 **t.brotz:** I have never been roasted that thoroughly in my life

 **a.brotz:** #BrotzmansTakeNoPrisioners

 **t.brotz:** Are you seriously scared of the internet security officer?

 **a.brotz:** Why wouldn't I be? Aren’t you?

 **t.brotz:** I haven't done anything wrong. You're just paranoid.

 **a.brotz:** I'm not being paranoid, I'm being cautious.

 **t.brotz:** Cautious schmautious, your entire job is loudly stating your opinion on widely discussed subjects on a very public platform. I recognise this, and with no fear I tell you, the internet security officer can't do shit

 **a.brotz:** You're bluffing

 **t.brotz:** The Internet Security Officer Can Suck My Dick

 **a.brotz:** Call me when your email gets suspended

~

“So, I just type words that I think are inappropriate into this server, and the system will automatically sort through all employee emails?”

“Yes. You have to send the warnings yourself, and make all judgement calls, but it should do the trick.” Ken takes a sip of his coffee, still miraculously hot, and makes a small noise of satisfaction. “This coffee is incredible, where did you get it?”

“I wandered down to this little place only a block or two from here, I don’t even remember the name.”

“That’s a shame. So, I’ve started you off, to give you an indication of the kind of things we want to be eliminating from workplace emails.”

In the list on screen, of words already being censored, Dirk feels already that Ken might be being a little too conservative. He can already tell they’ll have a problem with the word ‘classified,’ as, don’t all newspapers have a ‘Classifieds’ section? And he thinks ‘bomb’ is erring a little too far in the side of caution, bombs are often the subjects of articles, and no one building a bomb for use in this building is going to be so stupid as to email somebody in this building about it using their work email.

He sighs, and thinks there are much better things he could be doing with his time than listing every rude, violent, and pornographic word he can think of. But it’s what he’s being paid for. This, and intruding on strangers’ privacy. Everything one could hope for in a job.

He cracks his knuckles, because he thinks that has to be what one is supposed to do before starting a task like this, finds it more painful than helpful, and resolves never to do it again.

The abridged list, when he’s finished, looks something like the following:

  * Lydia
  * Kidnapping (he has qualms about this one, but has temporarily laid them to rest, he can weed out anything that doesn’t match what he’s looking for)
  * Shit (and variations thereof)
  * Drugs, including specifics (he spent an hour just trying to think of all the specific drugs he could name. It’s was disappointingly few.)
  * Fuck
  * Any genitalia related words
  * Ass/arse/asshole/arsehole
  * Bitch
  * Missing
  * Patrick
  * Anything mentioning alcohol, just in case, and that's a long list of its own
  * Lux DuJour or his real name (just to be extra cautious, considering that was the story Lydia was following when she disappeared)
  * Gun
  * Knife
  * Murder
  * Kill
  * Blood



He feels like he needs to take five showers in order to feel clean after spending hours of his life in the mindset of a person who might send lewd or threatening emails at work.

He thinks of it as a job well done.

And then the first email pops up, a chain between one Todd Brotzman and Amanda Brotzman, picked up for several words: Shit, Dick, Fuck

And then he reads it. And reads it again. And laughs.

They’re talking about him, though not at first. But they're talking about him, and his new job, and the exchange is entertaining, as other; more boring, entries start pouring in.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but he doesn’t send a warning. He’s going to give them one free pass, though he knows, deep inside, that he will probably never pull them up on this. He flags the email as inconsequential, and moves on to the next.

~

 **From:** a.brotz@springnews **.** org

 **To:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** How was last night?

Did you make a move and did Farah punch you across the face? Tell me all about it.

 **t.brotz:** I feel like you're being unfairly unsupportive of my years long crush on our Editor in Chief

 **a.brotz:** Nothing unfair about this. What happened?

 **t.brotz:** We drank lots of tea, watched movies, she fell asleep on me, and when I woke up this morning she left me a cold half full coffee pot and a sticky note apologising for leaving so early.

 **a.brotz:** And anyone else might assume you guys slept together

 **t.brotz:** Like you said, she's too out of my league.

 **a.brotz:** One day she'll kill someone right in front of your eyes and that still won't be enough to make you stop staring at her like she's made of sunlight.

 **t.brotz:** Oh, this is a perfect time to bring up my newest distraction

 **a.brotz:** Do tell

 **t.brotz:** You know how I've always had a thing for guys with arms

 **a.brotz:** Do you mean arm muscles?

 **t.brotz:** Fuck off. Yes, I meant arm muscles.

 **a.brotz:** How could I not? You had that one picture of Leo DiCaprio showing off his biceps taped your wall for years.

 **t.brotz:** Anyway, there's a cute guy working here

 **a.brotz:** What? No, there isn't.

 **t.brotz:** Au contraire, ma chère, for I have seen him. That was my response, too, though, which is why I waited for two Confirmed sightings

 **a.brotz:** Confirmed by who?

 **t.brotz:** Confirmed by me.

 **a.brotz:** What does he look like? And does this in any way link back to Leo DiCaprio and his biceps?

 **t.brotz:** Almost entirely. He's ginger, and he has arms like tree trunks. Like, I walked past, and he had his sleeves rolled up and I nearly melted

 **a.brotz:** Jesus, you gaylord, get your shit together. How is it that I haven't seen this guy?

 **t.brotz:** You probably did, but didn't register the cuteness, as you are almost exclusively a lesbian

 **a.brotz:** 75/25

 **t.brotz:** I get it - I used to live with you, remember?

 **a.brotz:** Tell me more about him

 **t.brotz:** There isn't much more to tell apart from his monumental cuteness

 **a.brotz:** His cuteness is monumental now?

 **t.brotz:** It was always monumental

 **a.brotz:** How was his ass?

 **t.brotz:** You know what, for once, I was actually looking at a guy's face. How did I forget to check out his ass?

 **a.brotz:** Dummy

 **t.brotz:** Because, the first time I saw him, he was at the drinking fountain, and my immediate thought was "now there's a tall drink of water...getting a drink of water" and completely forgot to check out his ass as well as his face. I’m distressed now.

 **a.brotz:** Well, if he works in the building, you'll have more chances to check out his ass. It's not the end of the world.

~

It's the end of the world.

Farah feels hungover. It might have been sleeping on a lumpy couch, or all the tea, or just the distress of knowing Lydia is gone, and at this point no trace of her has been found. By this point, usually there would be a ransom set. But there isn’t. Which makes Farah feel like maybe they aren’t looking for the girl she watched grow up. That instead, the police are searching for a body,

She shakes that feeling off. “Patrick, I understand that it’s her job, I know that, but it’s been three days, we can’t leave the slot empty. We have to temporarily promote _someone_.” She implores.

Patrick looks despondent, just about as distraught as she feels, but he nods, although minutely. “Who do you reccomend?”

Farah straightens her files up, knowing only one of the employees in this pile will be good enough to make it through Patrick’s high standards. So, she presents her first. “Amanda Brotzman, Brown University, Investigative Journalism major, with a minor in Media. She currently works in the political opinions column. She’ll be good in front of a camera.”

She hands the file over the desk. Patrick looks through it appraisingly and nods. “Is there anyone else you can think of, that might be better than this girl?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Not ideal, given the times she’s had to go to HR about her language in meetings, but it’s better than nothing. Send her a memo, and take her to get something appropriate to wear on air.”

~

 **From:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** DUDE I JUST GOT PROMOTED

GUESS WHOS TAKING OVER FOR LYDIA SPRING WHILE SHES ON EMERGENCY LEAVE FOR BEING KIDNAPPED

 **t.brotz:** One, you do not get emergency leave for being kidnapped, that's not a real thing. Two, OH MY GOD SERIOUSLY?

 **a.brotz:** Au contraire, mon frére, that's how Farah referred to it when she promoted me, so that's how it is.

 **t.brotz:** Does an Editor in Chief have the authority to promote people from news paper to on air?

 **a.brotz:** An Editor in Chief has the authority to promote people from news paper to air on behalf of Patrick Spring himself

 **t.brotz:** Jesus Fucking Christ

 **a.brotz:** You're gonna get us flagged

 **t.brotz:** What are they gonna do, fire me? I'm invaluable.

 **a.brotz:** Do you remember that time earlier this year when you walked into work and Assistent was sitting at your desk, doing your job, but less problematically?

 **t.brotz:** One, how dare you bring up The Forbidden April Fools Event. Two, fuck Assistent. I'm the reason the reviews are in the comic section. He'd make them boring and no one in Seattle would go to see movies because they'd think they were boring and the cinemas in Seattle would slowly crumble and then we’d have no more cinemas in Seattle and it'd be all Assistent’s fault.

 **a.brotz:** What the hell dude.

 **t.brotz:** The point is, there's a reason Assistent is in the mailroom and I'm where I am

 **a.brotz:** And there's a reason that I've been suddenly promoted to Spring News’s official, on air investigative journalist, and that reason is because Lydia Spring got kidnapped and there has been no public move made to recover her.

 **t.brotz:** You're unnecessarily cruel when you're happy

 **a.brotz:** It’s because I don't care about anyone else's wellbeing

 **t.brotz:** Okay. Well, you'll be glad to note that a third Confirmed sighting of the cute guy in our building was made. I watched him walk into the doorframe of the bathroom.

 **a.brotz:** …...holy fuck

 **t.brotz:** I thought you decided not to swear in emails because you were scared of getting fired.

 **a.brotz:** I've decided I can live with getting reported for saying “well fuck me” in an email to my brother

 **t.brotz:** Okay. Back to the topic at hand. You'll be proud of me, because I checked out his ass on my way past.

 **a.brotz:** You didn't help him?!?!?!?!

 **t.brotz:** I was busy. Boy been doing squats.

 **a.brotz:** Jesus. You seriously need to reassess your priorities.

 **t.brotz:** Not all of us can be suddenly promoted from the opinions column to being on air.

 **a.brotz:** You know I love to flaunt

~

Ken readjusts all the papers in his hands, and tucks them under his arm, reaching for the door knob. Patrick’s assistant is out for the night, it seems, so Ken just lets himself in, hoping Farah doesn't flip kick him in the face the moment he steps in, the way he's been trying to prove she can.

All conversation stops as he steps inside, Patrick looking up with an unimpressed expression on his face, and the woman he's talking to turning around to glare at him. She has a fantastic death glare. Ken is very sure, in that moment, that this woman will kill him, without hesitation.

 he says nothing, instead turning back to Patrick and making a grunting noise.

“Ken, what brings you here?” He asks, pleasantly, but his eyes are telling him to leave, immediately.

“Dincha mom ever teach ya to knock?” Asks the woman in a gravelly voice.

“Sorry, sorry.” Ken says, backing towards the door. “I'm interrupting.”

Patrick holds up a hand to stop him and Ken halts in his tracks. “Whatever you want to say to me you can say with her here.”

Ken looks, warily, at the ginger woman still giving him a dirty look, and swallows. “Dirk’s taken the time to catalogue today’s emails, by which words were flagged and by how serious each looked. Guess he had a lot of time.” He hands over the stack of paper to Patrick who looks vaguely dismayed.

“Thank you, Ken. Oh, while you're here, this is Bartine Curlish, our newest safety measure.”

“Hi. Jus’ call me Bart. I'm head of security now, and Patrick’s told me to bring in anyone actin’ suspicious.”

“I see.”

“Make sure she doesn't get into any trouble.”

“Of course.”

~

 **From:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** I have seen Hell and it's called Nordstrom in this world

Farah Black may or may not be out to extract my soul from my body and leave me for dead

 **t.brotz:** What the fuck does that mean

 **a.brotz:** She took me clothes shopping so I could look professional on air and lemme tell you, I've never seen her that intense before

 **t.brotz:** Not even at the last office Christmas party?

 **a.brotz:** Todd, she's terrifying. She followed me into a stall, to hand me more slacks. I already had five pairs of the same slacks, but in different colours. They're going to be filming me from the waist up. No one will see my slacks.

 **t.brotz:** Farah is…efficient

 **a.brotz:** Todd, one day she will kill you and with your dying breaths you'll tell me to carve your undying love for her into your headstone

 **t.brotz:** False

 **a.brotz:** I've never worn that many blouses in one day. I feel itchy. And we didn’t even end up buying any of the aforementioned slacks, that were made of entirely too much polyester, may I add.

 **t.brotz:** Call in sick?

 **a.brotz:** I can't. I have a meeting with my camera crew later today.

 **t.brotz:** Lmao, rip in peace

 **a.brotz:** I hope the internet security officer gets your ass fired

~

The van is not at all what she is expecting. It’s not unprofessional, per se, perhaps more beat up than she thought Patrick Spring would let leave his car park, let alone out on the streets representing him. And the men standing beside it are even more bafflingly… she doesn't know how to describe their vibe other than ‘punk’.

The heels Farah bought her yesterday are already making her feet feel like they want to climb up her body and strangle her for having the gall to put them in something so tall, and the skirt feels too short, despite hanging to her knees.

“Hi, I’m Amanda, the new on air journalist, it’s nice to meet you.” She says nervously, standing an awkward five or six feet from the men where they lean up against the van.

The one with the beard and platinum blonde hair, who has been inattentively smoking the whole time she was crossing the lot, looks up, drops his cigarette, and stubs it out with the toe of his boot. He waves. “I’m Martin, I’m your camera operator. This here’s Cross, he’s the on site sound tech, that’s Gripps, he’s on site Hair and Makeup, and that there is Vogel, he’s the Boom Mic operator.”

Each of them wave at the sound of their name, and Vogel looks a little more excited than the rest. “Missy Spring’s crew got spooked after getting talked to by the police, so we’re the new hires.” He explains.

That makes a lot of sense. Amanda would have expected them to be more hostile towards her if they were Lydia’s crew. That's sort of refreshing. “Okay, well, Farah’s gonna help us out with all of this, considering I've never been on air before and I've never worked with you guys, and how much experience do you guys have with this news network?”

“Next to none.”

“Excellent. So we're all beginners. Well. I can work with that.”

The one who introduced himself as Martin smiles.

~

 **From:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** f.black@springnews.org

 **Subject:** The internet security officer will just have to live with the fact that I have no personal email address

Are you planning on avoiding the fact that you left extremely early the other morning, and not ever giving me any explanation for it, forever?

 **f.black:** Todd, you really should have a personal email account

 **t.brotz:** So I can remember one more password? Unlikely. And you're avoiding the question now. What are you? The queen of avoiding things?

 **f.black:** I could be the queen of firing your ass

 **t.brotz:** I would prefer it if you weren't. I would also prefer it if you'd actually talk to me about what's bothering you.

 **f.black:** Everything’s bothering me. I'm sorry I left really early the other morning but it was unprofessional for me to be at your apartment in the first place.

 **t.brotz:** Right. Of course.

 **f.black:** I'm fine, Todd. Just high-strung about Lydia and promoting your sister and everything. It's a little overwhelming.

 **t.brotz:** I get that. I can bring my huge collection of tea into work if you want. That's not that unprofessional, right?

 **f.black:** Sure.

~

“So the piece I’ve been given as the investigative journalist,” Amanda bites her bottom lip to try and avoid saying something rash, “is about a _really_ old dog. You gave me the fluff piece-“

“Don’t think of it that way.” Farah smiles, though it looks worn, tired, forced. “Think of it as us easing you into the job. We’ll give you more serious reports in future, I promise, we just wanted to make sure your first time live in front of the camera wasn’t super stressful.”

Amanda tries not to lose her cool, which seems to be getting warmer by the minute, and she knows Farah is right (Farah is always right). She’s going to get all stumbly, and wordy if her first time in front of the camera is something important. All the same, she almost feels offended.

“Okay, okay, as long as you promise the next thing can be something I _actually_ researched and brought to the desk. I think I found a lead on the Lux De Jour case, and-“

“Yeah, I’ll be glad to hear all about it after you do the thing with the prize dog parade. Our audience loves the dog show.”

Amanda refuses to justify that with a response.

~

 **From:** d.gentl@springnews.org

 **To:** k.adams@springnews.org

 **Subject:** I Have A Question

Can I play minesweeper when I'm not working?

 **k.adams:** Shouldn’t you be investigating?

 **d.gentl:** So...is that a no?

~

The dog show, as it turns out, seems to be more than she bargained for.

She was in the middle of a whole spiel about prize winning dogs, (with newly painted neon nails, thanks to Gripps, as a small flip off to the executive who decided this should be her story) when a man outright approached her. On camera. In a crowded place.

“Do you know anything of Lydia Spring’s whereabouts?” His voice is almost robotic, and stilted in funny places, and she looks to the camera, and moreover, Martin, for guidance.

“Umm, no, there’s an ongoing investigation, I’m just filling in-“

The man leans closer, and there’s a smell about him, like death, that makes her recoil. “Would you like to know?”

She knows her eyes must have widened. Logically, she knows a lot of things happened in that moment, but that’s the first thing she knows happened. The man then grabs her shoulders, and his grip was nigh unbreakable. And then Gripps must have jumped at him, because then the both of them were on the floor scuffling, the stranger got a good punch in, got up, and ran.

And being in shock, she didn’t run after him.

So she sits on the floor of the showroom, branded fake microphone at her side, looking at her stockinged feet for answers to questions like: _what the fuck was that bald freak’s plan?_

~

 **From:** a.brotzman@springnews.org

 **To:** t.brotzman@springnews.org

 **Subject:** DID YOU SEE MY FIRST REPORT

DUDE, HOLY SHIT, FIRST DAY ON THE JOB AND I GET ATTACKED ON AIR. TV NEWS IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN PRINT NEWS. VIVA LA REVOLUTION, DOWN WITH PRINT NEWS.

  **t** **.brotz:** I did see your report, and you looked pretty terrified

 **a.brotz:** Fuck you, I wasn’t terrified, I was just surprised. You would be too if some fucking freak basically cryptically asked you if you wanted to see a dead body on live television.

 **t.brotz:** I thought we were holding out hope that she’s still up and at it.

 **a.brotz:** Yeah Todd, she’s been missing for over a week, and there still hasn’t been a ransom notification, she’s definitely still alive.

 **t.brotz:** It says too much about how well I know you that I know exactly what tone of voice you would have used if you said that aloud. In other news, I have a Fourth Confirmed Sighting of the Cute Guy. I almost bumped into him at the vending machine. He has the most annoying British accent, but I’m willing to overlook that for how beautiful our children would be.

 **a.brotz:** So we’re assuming that he has the dominant genes then? Wouldn’t want those kids looking like you.

 **t.brotz:** I’m hurt. But yes, that’s what I’m assuming, you want ginger nephews and nieces, you know you do.

 **a.brotz:** Fuck you. Yes, I know I do. Fuck you for knowing my exact weaknesses.

 **t.brotz:** we’ve really got to tone down the swearing or the Internet Security Officer is gonna bust our asses.

 **a.brotz:** first of all, I recommend not swearing in your ‘let’s not swear’ email, second, the Internet Security Officer is a punk ass bitch, and a coward, and if he had any balls he would report us now

 **t.brotz:** I always knew it would be you who got me fired.

 **a.brotz:** The fact that you think it’ll be me that gets you fired and not your own absentminded cursing is truly incredible and I wish I could convince myself so surely of things the way you do

 **t.brotz:** Fuck you

 **a.brotz:** Watch your tone, mister. ISO’s always watching

 **t.brotz:** Like you said, he’s a coward.

~

 _Shit_.

He should definitely have sent them a warning the first time they showed up in the system. But they’re his only source of entertainment in this whole place. That said, they’ve ticked off too many boxes this time to get away without a warning. And maybe if he sends one, he won’t seem like such a pushover.

He sends the warning. It’s a template he and Ken created when starting the program, so that nothing about it looks different to the ones their colleagues would get, but he knows they’ll know that there is favouritism at play here.

There’s a part of him that speculates on Todd Brotzman’s ‘Cute Guy’ being him. But his accent isn’t annoying.

And then there is the interesting point that Amanda brought up. That there hasn’t been a ransom note/video/call. There’s been no communication from the kidnappers and it gets more worrying every day,

He idly wonders if he’s looking for a body.

But the pull is still there.

He assures himself that Lydia Spring is alive.

~

 **From:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** f.pollo@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Suicide Squad Review (Please Kill Me)

Attachment.pdf

Francis, please just kill me already. This movie wanted me dead, it really did. Fulfill its wishes. Smash my head in with the photocopier. I’m not kidding.

 **f.pollo:** Todd, as much as I would love to, and trust me, I would, I can’t. I’ve had to fire too many people in the last month. Kill yourself on your own time. Put it off for six months. I need your entertainingly morbid movie reviews.

 **t.brotz:** You obviously don’t care about me. I thought you loved me. What happened?

 **f.pollo:** After Suzie Boreton tried to organise a coup against me, I kinda gave up. You can see where I’m coming from, here, can’t you?

 **t.brotz:** Look, just give me something good to review, next week.

 **f.pollo:** That’s your fucking job, Todd. You find out what movies are good and what movies aren’t.

 **t.brotz:** I’m moving to the Himalayas to farm yaks. You’ll never hear from me again.

 **f.pollo:** Yeah, have fun with that.

~

She hauls Dirk by his jacket collar towards Patrick Spring’s office, and he idly thinks about slipping out of the jacket and running. Rather, it’s more than an idle thought, because she looks like she could somehow kill him by waving at him. But he wonders where this whole situation is going, and that curiosity keeps him in her grip.

“Hi, Ken.” She says, looking like she’s just going to keep dragging him. Ken looks up from his files and worriedly takes in the scene.

“Umm, Bart? Dirk is an employee.”

“He’s looks suspicious, I was told to bring in shifty types.” She reasons, stopping abruptly as Ken catches up with them. Dirk is grateful for the little relief he gets from not having to keep up with her.

“Yes, but he has a badge. Employees have these badges.” He flashes his own badge at her as Dirk points at his emphatically. She glares at him, and scoffs.

“Anyone could forge that badge.”

“Yes, but I _know_ Dirk is and employee here. This is a roundabout way of me asking you to let him go.”

She sighs, and releases her death grip in Dirk’s jacket, which comes away slightly, and disturbingly dirty.

“We need to have a more specific talk about who you’re looking for. Farah does like to generalise.”

She rolls her eyes, and Dirk takes it as his cue to leave. He shoots an errant “Thanks, Ken,” over his shoulder, and scurries back the direction he came.

~

 **From:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** f.pollo@springnew.org

 **Subject:** Star Trek Beyond Review (I am postponing my suicide attempt)

Attachment.pdf

Plans have changed.

~

“Francis says that Todd’s getting pissy again.” Farah says, sorting through another file. Patrick looks up.

“Francis being?” Patrick responds.

“The copy editor.”

“And Todd being?”

“Movie reviewer. He’s Amanda’s brother.”

“Right.”

“Are you feeling alright, sir?”

“No, Farah. It’s been a week and a half since my daughter went missing, and no progress has been made. No ransom note, nothing except for the bald man who attacked Ms Brotzman at the dog show. Estevez has given me nothing. At this point, she might well be dead. And I have no idea whether that is the case or not.”

“Sir…”

“Give Miss Brotzman the Lux DuJour case. That’s what Lydia was working on when she went missing. If the case has anything to do with her disappearance, maybe it will draw the perpetrators out.”

“Of course, sir.”

~

 **From:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** GUESS WHOS GONNA EXCAVATE A LONG DEAD ROCK ICON

YA GIRLS GONNA FIND LUX DUJOUR

 **t.brot** **z:** why is your job so much better than mine? Also I’m not certain they let you dig up corpses. Even if they did, you can’t even deal with the smell of truffles. You can’t handle a fifteen year old corpse smell.

 **a.brotz:** Not The Point. Why aren’t you happy for me? They gave me the case that Lydia was working before she went missing.

 **t.brotz:** Maybe they just want to see if you’ll go missing too.

 **a.brotz:** I’m calling mom and telling her you said that.

 **t.brotz:** You absolute snitch. Also, side note, what if you find him ‘Metro Man’ style, like in the critically acclaimed movie ‘ _Megamind_ ’ and he faked his own kidnapping and death to escape his fame?

 **a.brotz:** I wanna know what critic acclaimed ‘ _Megamind_ ’

 **t.brotz:** I am a critic.

 **a.brotz:** Barely. Also, I hope that’s what happened. Then I could interview him. I _need_ to exploit his story for my own fame.

 **t.brotz:** I may have been stoned the first time I watched it, but it’s still the best fucking movie I have ever seen

~

Dirk presses another button on the vending machine, sending a packet of cheetos down to the dispenser. Dinner tonight is cheetos and what looks like out of date Pepsi. Sounds about right.

The universe has sent him no signs since he got here, two weeks ago, and Dirk feels like he’s being wasted, here. Like he went wrong, somewhere, like he’s gone to the  right place at the wrong time. It’s awfully depressing.

He retrieves his cheetos from the dispenser, and woman with black hair and striking blue eyes steps up to the drink dispenser, beside him, and gives him a small wave. Dirk returns it, hesitantly.

“Mona Wilder, Advertisement.” She introduces herself, reaching out her hand.

Dirk stuffs his Pepsi and cheetos into his elbow and shakes her hand. “Dirk Gently,” He replies, biting back ‘private detective’, “Internet Security.”

“Ooh, you are the person who’s reading all our emails.”

He almost grimaces. “Yes, that’s me. I… read emails, for a living.”

She grins. “I take it you are not thrilled with your job.”

“It does have a tendency to feel like a violation of privacy.”

“We all know you’re there. If they send something that ends up in your inbox, that’s their fault.” She shrugs, and of course, she’s right, but it doesn’t make looking through Todd and Amanda’s emails feel less like eavesdropping. And then there’s all the others, talking about their worries for Lydia, or the odd ones that say they’re glad she’s gone, though he can’t understand why.

By all accounts, she’s a lovely young woman, very bright - flew through her journalism classes at Columbia - and very caring - often known to donate very generously to charities, and to often visit and volunteer at the local children's hospital. He can’t imagine anyone actually hoping she was gone. Dead. Forever.

He knows at least two of the people who’s emails expressed a similar sentiment were put on probation.

“Yes, well a system can only do so much, and reading them all through to see if a threat or infringement is serious is exhausting.”

Mona looks thoughtful. “Maybe I could help you.”

“Could you?”

“Buy me some cheetos, and we can find out.”

Dirk smiles. “Deal.”

~

 **From:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Cute Guy has a girlfriend and my life is over

I was at the cafeteria, and this girl approached him, and they definitely flirted. Cute Guy is straight, and probably engaged, and I have nothing to live for.

 **a.brotz:** Who is this cafeteria floozy? I’ll help you tear her limb from limb.

 **t.brotz:** Not worth it, she made him smile. Manda, it’s like looking at the sun.

 **a.brotz:** You know you sound more in love with him than Farah.

 **t.brotz:** I wish, I invited her over again, and I was flat out rejected. :(

 **a.brotz:** I’ll come over tonight, and we’ll watch bad old movies and drink terrible tea to drown your sorrows, yeah? How are meetings going?

 **t.brotz:** It would be better if you would come to one. And yeah, let’s do that.

 **a.brotz:** :)

~

The air down here is stale and dusty, and the single light hanging from the ceiling does not give off a lot of light. Her wrist hurt from her straining against her bonds. Her knees hurt from sitting most of the time she’s been down here. Her eyes hurt from straining against the dull light.

And her heart hurts for the poor soul buried under the crude cross sticking haphazardly from the dirt in the corner furthest from her.

She knows who it is. Of course she does. They’ve been asking what she knows. How she knows it. She doesn’t answer.

Her cheek hurts from the slapping, and her scalp from the hair pulling, but she won’t speak. The longer she doesn’t answer, the longer she’s alive.

She knows too much now. They’ll never let her leave. Her best chance now is staying alive so that someone might find her.

~

 **From:** k.adams@springnews.org

 **To:** f.black@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Bart Curlish

I have had to stop her three consecutive times from dragging employees into Patrick’s office. I think you need to give her a bit of a more detailed run down on her job

 **f.black:** Thanks, Ken, I'll get on to that after I get through the crushing amount of paperwork I'm doing and the interview with police.

 **k.adams:** Just a suggestion. I'll bring it back up later.

 **f.black:** You do that.

~

The door knocking is incessant, because Amanda, much as he loves her, has never been patient. “Brother, dearest! Open the door or I swear to god I’ll kick it down, and you’ll have to explain to the landlord!”

“I’m coming!” He yells, stashing the two ( _two_ , over the course of the last week and a half, this shouldn't be a big deal, but she’ll freak, he knows she will) empty beer bottles at the bottom of the recycling bin.

His door latch is broken, but they pretend it’s not, so they can pretend his home is secure, and they can pretend he has any semblance of privacy. It’s a whole pretending thing. It’s probably not healthy. He opens the door for her, and she smiles. “I brought new disgusting tea to try!”

And, as terrible as he knows it will be, he smiles, and it genuine. Because she’s putting in the effort, for both of them. She’s trying to keep him on track. And he feels guilty. The smile stays put, as it was practiced to.

“Come on in. So, I got _Some Like It Hot_ out, because I know you want to start with that. But then I’m thinking- and I know it’s not a terrible movie, but I think _The Princess Bride_ is just what this pity party needs.”

Amanda grins. “It’s exactly what we need.”

She flops down on his sad excuse for a couch, and puts her feet on his coffee table. “Those had better be on the floor when I get back with your tea.”

She laughs, and he sets the kettle on to boil, and sets up in the kitchen.

“I want milk in my tea!” She yells.

“That’s a travesty. Besides, I don’t know if I have milk.”

“I’ll check for you.”

“Amanda, I’m in the kitchen! It’s literally three steps to the fridge.”

Amanda appears in the doorway. “And I’m two steps away, one, two, I’m here!”

She opens the fridge and he rolls his eyes. And the room goes deadly silent. The air tightens around him, and Amanda lets the fridge door drift closed.

“What is this?” She asks, quietly and it dawns on him what she's seen.

“Amanda,” Todd turns around and sees the crestfallen look on her face. “It's not what you think.”

“I thought you said you weren't drinking. I thought you said you hadn't been drinking.” Her voice is devoid of emotion and she won’t turn to look at him.

“I’m not. I haven't been. It's an occasional thing.”

“No, Todd, that's not what we agreed. We said special occasions only. Office parties and the occasional gala invite from Farah, not casually drinking at home. That's not what we agreed.”

“So, it's not like I'm binge drinking every night.” He tells her. And at this she turns, her face full of the kind of fury she only expresses when she is truly angry and scared. The last time he saw her face like this was the night they had to drive their own parents home, after forcing them out of a restaurant and into Todd’s shitty car, and they made this pact.

“So, what, Farah left this six pack in your fridge? Tell me that's what this is so that I don't have to deal with the fact that you _lied_ to me.” Her voice cracks on the word lied.

“She didn't. Those are mine.”

“Great. Fantastic. So what else have you been lying about? Have you even been going to meetings?”

“You know for a fact how hard it is to get to those meetings. Our work is demanding. So I'm not going every week, like I made you think. It's been like once every month, once every two weeks, if I'm lucky.”

“I can't believe this.” She scoffs, but he can see her eyes are shiny, and he knows how much this hurts her, how much his non-commitment has betrayed her trust.

“Amanda, it's not that big of a deal.” He says, trying desperately to de-escalate the situation.

“Yes, it is!” She shouts, anger clear in her voice, tears seriously starting to fill her eyes. “You're turning into our parents! You’re doing exactly what we said we wouldn’t!”

“No, I’m not! This is not like what they did!” He asserts, defensively.

“Don't tell me you haven't thought of drinking more. Don't tell me that you haven't come close to spiralling. I'm not an idiot, Todd.”

“And yet you seem to think that I am. And if I’ve thought of it, doesn’t that make me stronger for not having given in? I’m trying, you have to see that I’m _trying_ here.” He pleads.

She shakes her head, and wipes tears of her cheeks. “I can't be here.”

“Amanda-”

She stomps past him, and through his front door, leaving it open so he can hear her heavy footsteps down the stairs and out of the building. He doesn’t quite know to What full extent he’s damaged his relationship with his sister, but he knows he has seriously fucked up.

He can’t work up the motivation required to close his door for a long while after she leaves.

~

 **From:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** f.black@springnews.org

 **Subject:** my brother is a dick, I hate him, and I want your help getting revenge

I’m gonna murder my brother, will you help me

 **f.black:** What did he do?

 **a.brotz:** You know how we have a ‘no drinking’ thing because of our parents, the dysfunctional, angry, closet-alcoholics? Todd was drinking, and I’m mad, and honestly, I get it, but I’m just angry that he lied to me.

 **f.black:** That seems… incredibly insightful of you

 **a.brotz:** I wanna tear him limb from limb

 **f.black:** Not so insightful after all. I’d suggest you don’t do that.

 **a.brotz:** Yeah, I won’t, but I am gonna ghost him

 **f.black:** That's a mildly healthier approach. If you want, I can talk to him about it.

 **a.brotz:** Don't. He won't listen to me, so why would he listen to you?

 **f.black:** I'm pretty much his boss who can fire him at any time?

 **a.brotz:** He hates his job.

 **f.black:** That's…less than ideal. Amanda, listen, he’ll come around.

 **a.brotz:** Even if he's a dick about it?

  **f.black:** You shouldn't be swearing in emails. But yes. Even if he is a dick about it.

~

Amanda doesn’t text him. Amanda doesn’t call him. Amanda doesn’t email him. When he passes her in the hall, she doesn’t speak to him. Or acknowledge him. Or look at him.

He knows his little sister well enough to know that she’s ghosting him, her signature method of getting revenge. And he knows that what he did, in their relationship, is severe enough to have warranted being ghosted. But it still hurts.

He throws the four remaining beers in the six pack, and throws them out, well, not quite. He goes into the alley behind his building and he smashes them. And comes back an hour later, and sweeps up and disposes of the broken glass. The point is that the last remaining alcohol in his house has vacated the premises.

And he feels fucking awful. He goes to a meeting the night after. He plans to go every week, trying to set up his work schedule so that he has Wednesday night free every week. He re-commits himself to this thing, even if it is for the purely selfish, non altruistic reason of getting his sister back.

But he knows that if he goes and tells her what he’s doing, what he should have been doing anyway, it’s like a prompted apology. All symbol, no meaning. He needs to earn having her in his life, and part of that has to be making sure he stays healthy, not just for her, but also for himself.

Of course, it all has to be thrown into a bottomless pit of mayhem and chaos by the very same Cute Guy he had been semi-stalking for the last three weeks. He’s supposed to be reviewing Ghostbusters, and honestly, he wants to be writing notes, but Cute Guy is in the line ahead of him getting entirely too much popcorn. And then he’s two rows in front of him, laughing and chewing loudly, and looking like a fucking ray of sunshine took human form, and it’s like Todd’s brain has regressed back to Neanderthal times. And, even more humiliating, he’s just about drooling, because Cute Guy is wearing a freaking t-shirt, and those tree-trunk arms are out and observable, and Todd misses everything about the movie, except for snippets.

He's going to have to watch it again. Francis is going to have a stroke when he finds out that Todd didn't watch the movie. He can say he fell asleep, but that probably worse than being absolutely enchanted by the silhouette of his maybe-workplace-crush. Who maybe has a girlfriend.

Todd doesn't know.

Leaving the movie, knowing he will have to buy his own ticket for his next, actual work related viewing, and focused on his phone, he fucking bumps into the Guy. Who’s remaining popcorn spills all over the ground as they go tumbling. In that moment, Todd has never wanted to end his existence more.

No.

That’s not true.

Knowing at the moment that Sony announced The Emoji Movie that he would have to review it was a worse point of time for him.

But this is a close second.

Cute Guy exclaims loudly, and with a very British accent that is still annoying and definitely not hot. “Shit!”

Todd manages to stay remarkably silent apart from the thump as they both hit the cheaply carpeted floor. He groans, and rolls over so that he’s not lying on top of the guy he sort of works with, and sort of moons over instead of doing work. Because lying on top of him after tripping into him, after just so happening to be at the same showing of the same movie, after sending several very incriminating emails about him to his sister, who still hates him, would be a very bad idea.

“I’m so sorry!” He manages to spit out as he climbs to his feet. But the guy seems to be more distraught over all of the popcorn he’s inadvertently spilled over the floor.

“Dammit! And I spent an extra fifty cents for the top up I've already used! Dammit!” It's a little hard to take him seriously, sweeping the scattered popcorn into his empty container to sadly throw in the bin. Todd kinda stands over him, hovering, wondering if he'll notice him or somehow recognise him from work.

“Um…” Cute Guy does not look up. Todd shuffles, nervously. “Do you need help?”

“Yes. I need a time machine so I can go back and stop myself from using my top up so soon.” Cute Guy replies.

It’s an odd response, and honestly, a little endearing in how odd it is. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- I was looking at my phone, which, really, it’s a sign of what this world is coming to, and, is there anything I can do to help? I can buy you more popcorn at the desk, to replace-“

Cute Guy fixes his all too blue eyes on Todd, and he just about melts. His eyebrows pull over his eyes, and Todd knows this is the moment he’s going to be recognised and accused of stalking. He prepares himself for the oncoming restraining order.

Instead, Cute Guy’s utterly jaw-drop-worthy smile presents itself again. “I recognise you from somewhere. Do you work at Spring News?”

Todd offers a smile that can’t be anywhere near as charming as the one he received. “Yeah. I’m the ‘movie critic’.” The guy finally gets to his feet, and Todd offers a hand for shaking. “I’m Todd Brotzman.”

The guys eyes light with a sort of realisation, but hides it almost immediately. “Dirk Gently.” He replies, and takes Todd’s hand for a short but firm handshake, and Todd pretends he doesn’t almost shiver when their hands meet.

Amanda might have been right. He might be more gone for this Guy than he ever was for Farah.

Cute Guy- _Dirk’s_ gaze goes serious, considerate for a moment.

“Your sister is the stand-in anchor.” Todd swallows all of his feelings about Amanda right now, and manages a nod. “She’s doing all the investigative journalism. That must be fun. You know, I’m a bit of a detective myself.” He proclaims proudly.

It’s about to either get really weird or really interesting, and he isn’t sure which. He nods to signal to Dirk to keep speaking.

“There’s a thing, connected to the Lydia Spring case that I want to check out and,” Dirk sighs, like he knows the answer will be no. “Will you come with me?”

And that’s the story of the most roundabout way he has ever been asked on a date.

~

 **From:** k.adams@springnews.org

 **To:** d.gentl@springnews.org

 **Subject:** No Report Today?

Dude, I know this is just a cover, but I really do need to give the boss something to mark your progress. Let me know when you get this.

~

Amanda taps against the dashboard in a frantic rhythm, to try and distract herself from how angry and betrayed she still feels. Because it’s been three days, and surely, _surely_ , some of the anger should have worn off by now. Surely it should all be in perspective, and what Todd did should be that big of a deal.

But it’s not. Or it is, and it is as big a deal as she thought it was. Because it feels like a smaller, more trusting part of herself got kicked into reality by what has amounted to being the family disease. A family of closet alcoholics, The Brotzman’s, the perfect nuclear family.

She hates it.

“You look pissed,” Martin tells her.

“Yeah? It’s cause I’m pissed.” She replies, deadpan. She ignores the fact that Martin is smiling in her peripheral.

“You wanna know what we do when we get angry?” He asks.

She rolls her eyes. “What?”

“We smash stuff. Got a nice deal with the guy who runs the local car junkyard. The cars are gonna get smashed up anyways, so they let us in and let us have a go. Sound like something you’d wanna do, Drummer?”

And even with how much every part of her aches to be self sufficient, that sounds really good. Because all she wants is to destroy things. It’s all she wants.

She nods enthusiastically. 

Of course, she can’t really anticipate what will happen when all of them get out of the van to smash things, and leave all of the equipment alone.

~

 **From:** k.adams@springnews.org

 **To:** f.black@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Have You Seen Dirk, Today?

Because I haven't. I've already checked with Mona, who he’s been hanging out with lately (and, no, I have no idea what that entails) and she hasn't seen him around today, either. I know he's a detective and all and he's supposed to be mysterious, but I'm still a little worried. It's not like him to go off the grid like this.

 **f.black:** He left a sticky note on my desk that said “Gone Doing” which makes no sense to me, but I can only hope it's a breakthrough in the case

 **k.adams:** Okay. Let me know if there's anything else. I'll check in.

 **f.black:** Sure thing, Ken.

~

Todd is starting to think that maybe this wasn’t a date at all. Not that walking aimlessly just sort of talking isn’t nice, but Dirk does seem to actually be looking for clues or something. He’s looking around sort of suspiciously.

Todd thought the “bit of a detective” statement was a pick up line. He really did. He feels like a bit of an idiot, which is a common mood of his, lately, he notes.

Something moves in Todd’s peripheral vision, and he squints into the underbrush. A corgi blinks, innocently, at him from the foliage of a bush. Todd glances to Dirk, raving on about how stuffy his office is, and wanders over to the corgi. It comes willingly to him when he crouches down to get a better look. It has a tag on its collar, an address attached to it.

“Uh, hey, Dirk? I just found a dog. It's address is, like, a street over.” Todd calls. Dirk is by his side in mere seconds.

He purses his lips, and takes a look at the tag, before straightening up, sitting back on his heels. “We should return it.” He suggests, although it sounds a little less like a suggestion and a little more like an announcement. Like this is non negotiable.

Todd accepts this as quickly as he can manage and gathers the dog into his arms. “Alright.” He agrees, and begins walking down the street.

Dirk gives him an odd, pleased sort of look, and follows on, quickly. “You know, Todd, I reckon you'd make a good assistant.” He comments.

Todd raises an eyebrow. Definitely not a pick up line, then. He really means it. This guy who works in tech with Ken Adams thinks he's some kind of detective. Thinks Todd should help him out, based on Todd finding a random dog during their sort-of-not-date.

“Sure.” He says instead of anything else.

His strangeness does not dampen his attractiveness. That’s what Todd attributes staying with him to. That and maybe Todd also quite fancies his quirkiness, despite the insanity of it.

The house matching the address is fairly unassuming, and a little disappointing, if Todd’s honest, but they knock on the door and wait, awkwardly on the front step for someone to answer.

The guy who opens the door looks barely put together and quite hurried, and there's blood on his sleeve. Only enough to blame on cutting oneself while shaving, but enough to be worryingly noticeable.

Todd and Dirk share a look. “Uh, we found your dog, a street over.” Todd says, handing it over to the guy.

The guy’s eyes widen and he quickly takes the dog, looking wary of them. “Oh, thank you. I had no idea where she was.”

A faint noise sounds from behind the guy and Dirk cocks his head, eyes narrowed, a thoughtful look on his face.

The guy goes quite pale. “Ah, yeah, thanks. Have a nice day.” He slams the door in their faces.

Dirk gives him meaningful eyes, an expression that is definitely supposed to mean _something_ . “ _Wildly_ suspicious.” He says, and turns from the door to walk up the driveway.

“What is?” Todd asks as of the hairs on the back of his neck aren't standing on end, fooling him away from the unnerving house.

“Everything about that guy, Todd!” Dirk replies. “Don't tell me that you weren't mildly uncomfortable about everything during that encounter.”

“I'm mildly uncomfortable about everything during this encounter.” Todd mumbles.

“Did you hear that sound?” Is the sudden question delivered along with a sharp elbow to his ribs.

“What sound?” He gasps, rubbing the tender spot.

“The sound that made him looks scared.” A thoughtful expression blooms on Dirk’s face. “It sounded a lot like someone screaming through a gag.”

Todd raises his eyebrows. “And you'd know a lot about that, would you?” He asks, and tries not to laugh.

“Har-har.” Dirk says, rolling his eyes. “No, Todd, be serious. I think, and this is a wild accusation, I admit. I think that guy might have Lydia Spring in his basement.”

“Okay, _now_ you sound crazy.” Todd deadpan, and scuffs at the gravel on the side of the road.

“It is a bit crazy to say, yes.” Dirk agrees.

“I mean, he said less than twenty words to us.” He continues, feeling a little bit crazy to consider it.

“Yes, but don't you think it's a bit suspicious for some guy in the area she was investigating in when she disappeared to be scared of a sound in his basement?” It would be a fair point if Todd didn't doubt it, entirely.

“I mean, sure, but she didn't go missing in this particular neighbourhood.” Todd points out. “She went missing in _Seattle_ , which is _huge_.”

Dirk groans, and gives Todd a pleading look. “Todd, what are the odds that we’d find the dog of Lydia’s probable captor?”

“Very slim.” Todd says. “Listen to what you're saying, Dirk.”

“Just forwarding a theory.”

“Let's find your car and get back to work. I have a movie review to bullshit.”

“I could help you with that, you know.”

“Don't you have a job?”

“I'll just say you had tech trouble and I was helping you. Ken’s a huge softie, you know?” Dirk says.

Todd snorts. “You didn't know him in high school and work with him at the same department store where everyone referred to him as Supervisor Adams. He was a scary dude, back then.”

“Oh. Well.” Dirk pauses, his mouth twisting with conflict. “That doesn't bode well for me, does it?”

“Nope.” He gives him a sympathetic smile. “C’mon. I have a sandwich waiting for me.”

~

 **From:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** f.black@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Currently In Need Of New Equipment? (I'm Sorry)

So, my camera crew and I were getting lunch at this diner and we came out to find that the van with all our equipment had been broken into, and all our stuff got stolen.

 **f.black:** Oh my god.

 **a.brotz:** I'm sorry

 **f.black:** I’ll talk to Patrick about it

 **a.brotz:** Thank you

~

Lydia isn't quite sure what's worse. The fact that she's tied up in a basement (covered in her blood, mind you), gagged and bound to a support beam, or the fact that her captors are using Spring News filming equipment to make her ransom note.

The guy currently holding her in his basement has given her a script, a really shitty one, and they've ungagged her for the time being. If Lydia was bolder, now would be the time to start screaming, but they're holding a gun to her head.

So, she does what she can. She reads out the ransom note in a shaking, hoarse voice, and prays someone’s smart enough to find her.

~

 **From:** m.wilde@springnews.org

 **To:** p.sprin@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Sir, You Really Need To See This

Attachment.link

~

They’re all looking at the screen dumbfounded. Lydia Spring, dirty, pale, worse for wear, but _alive_ speaking shakily from a note put in her still bound hands, demanding money from her father. And it’s being broadcast from their own station. Todd just about can’t move.

Ken Adams, Security Management is tracking the broadcast as they gather around him nervously. He says it’s coming from their own equipment, though Todd has no idea how that could be the case, because usually field teams are so careful with their filming equipment.

Nevertheless, Ken says he can track it. And he does seem to be.

Across the office, he sees Amanda, dressed incredibly professionally, a departure from her usually slightly shabby ensemble, packing things into a bag, obviously getting ready to report on the fact that the ransom came through on their own channel. From their own equipment.

“Todd.” Comes a familiar British accent from behind him. He turns to Dirk.

“What?” He asks.

“The dirt. On the ground around her. It’s the same kind of stuff we saw in that neighbourhood where we recovered the dog.” Dirk looks painfully serious.

“Look, a lot of the Seattle suburban area has the same coloured dirt. I don’t think that’s a lead.” He reasons.

“Well, then maybe look at the area Ken has narrowed it down to. Because that looks like the block where we found and returned the dog. Please trust me. I _heard_ her. If I’m wrong, it doesn’t do any damage to check.” He pleads.

“Why do you need me?” Todd asks.

“Every good detective needs an assistant.”

“I’m not your Watson, asshole.” He tells him. A moment of deliberation. “I’m driving.”

Dirk grins. “I won’t let you down.”

“Just let me get my keys, we’ll go straight to the house.” He tells him, and turns from the transfixing frozen image of Lydia on the screen, determined to save her if he can.

~

 **From:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** I know you don’t want to hear from me, but something crazy happened, and you have to go there

I know you’re avoiding me, and for good reason, I’m not here to defend myself.

But I met Cute Guy yesterday. And he lead me into the house of the person who I think is holding Lydia Spring, and long story short, I think we accidentally burned the house down.

I literally don’t know how it happened.

That said, you need to go to that house. Because if she wasn’t there when we were, she had been. And the guy who lived there was obsessed with Lux DuJour. I’m talking original memorabilia here. It’s definitely tied to both things.

As a small update, I’ve been completely sober for five days. Not quite cause for celebration, I’ve done longer, but I thought you should know.

The address is [ **Redacted** ]

I love you, sis.

~

The house, because it is obvious that there used to be a house here, has definitely been burned down. The remainder of it is still smouldering. The interesting part of it is that there is still a basement access, and it’s still standing.

Amanda stands on the dirt floor of the basement, and looks around at the scene. She can feel Martin behind her, standing at the base of the stairs, watching as she investigates. Someone was obviously held here, seated against the support beams. There are scuffles marks in the dry dirt, and something that looks like, but she hopes is not, blood.

And in the opposite corner, a handmade cross sticking out of the dirt, the sort you’d make for a pet that died. It’s chilling to look at. Forensics stands in the corner uncovering whatever was buried there. She waits, hoping to break the news first.

But she knows, from what she was told, she knows that the body they will uncover will have once been Lux DuJour. And if that’s the case, then that was why Lydia was taken, and taken _here_.

She takes solace in knowing that the blood by her feet is not enough to have killed her. Lydia Spring may still be alive.

~

 **From:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **To:** f.pollo@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Body of Lux DuJour Discovered in Torched Seattle Home - 15 Year Cold Case Solved

Attachment.pdf

I figure this bit is my job as well, since I was on the scene. Do what you will with it.

 **f.pollo:** Editing note - add mention of the Lydia Spring Broadcast. Make it clear we know the two cases are linked. Other than that, an overall good article.

 **a.brotz:** Roger that. I’m on it.

~

After the ransom video goes live, the whole thing seems to come to a standstill. The note they asked Lydia to read out was so poorly constructed they gave no indication of where they wanted the money to go to. So acquiescing isn’t an option.

The house lead to the name Gordon Rimmer, who now has an arrest warrant to his name. They are constantly flashing his name, his face, and a description of his car on every news network, and Lydia’s face is on every light post, billboard, newspaper, and television.

Which isn’t really a change.

Patrick Spring never finds out that Todd at least was involved in the fire. And there is no mention of either of their names in the tabloids. Either they were truly undiscovered or someone paid the press a lot of money to make the story go away.

Todd’s life continues careening down the path of unavoidable self deprecation and odd happenstances. For example, Dirk, and his friend Mona (The Cafeteria Floozy) show up at his desk to ask him for lunch and they end up in some remote part of town searching out a particular dish that Dirk is for some reason or another craving. And they somehow always find a place that serves it. Another example is that Amanda continues to ignore his messages, leaving him on Read.

Another example is the continuing string of pointless and boring moves he's sent to review. He doesn't feel witty anymore. He just feels…

Todd doesn't think there's a word for it. He just feels dry.

At this point, he feels like Dirk realises this every moment that it gets bad, and that's the moment that he barges in to turn Todd upside down for a moment, only to set him back on solid ground a moment later and let him live off the dizziness. At this point, he feels like Dirk is going to break into his apartment, when he gets home from work, just so the chain never stops.

Todd can't tell if he misses everything from before, or if he’s just unprepared for the now.

~

 **From:** d.gentl@springnews.org

 **To:** m.wilde@springnews.org

 **Subject:** I think I need to tell him

This has gone on for long enough. His resting face is “I want to sleep forever”

 **m.wilde:** Who? What are you telling him?

 **d.gentl:** Todd, of course. And I need to tell him that I'm the one reading the emails. His emails. The emails where he details a red headed British man who does strange things whom he refers to as Cute Guy.

 **m.wilde:** Is now really the time?

 **d.gentl:** Soon enough the case will be over, Mona. And when it is, I'll immediately move on to a new case. That's my life. It'll probably take me somewhere far away from Seattle, just like it's done every other time, and I'll end up leaving him behind. I can't do that.

 **m.wilde:** Only if you're sure.

 **d.gentl:** I'm never sure of anything.

~

Things continue in a downhill motion. The film equipment is recovered, trashed and torched of course, so they’re unlikely to get more footage of Lydia, affirming the truth that she is in fact alive. A week goes by with no leads.

And Dirk continues to sit with him to eat lunch. Which is good. And odd. And Todd still really doesn’t even know what Dirk does here. It’s a bit of a mystery in and of itself.

And he really has been trying to solve it. He works with Ken. And when he asked Ken, he just looked at him suspiciously and said ‘That’s Classified’ and he had a flashback to the Supervisor Adams days.

But he has to work somewhere in Security. He has to.

It crosses his mind that Dirk might be the famed Internet Security Officer. But the thought is too mortifying to consider for more than a few seconds at a time. So that can't be it, just through pure denial, that can't be it.

He doesn't bother asking, because he always chickens out, and finds himself living in annoyance at himself. It’s only a slight change.

But like most things with Dirk, if he waits for long enough, he’ll just sort of rat himself out. Of course, he knows well enough to ask the right questions to lead him along the path to spilling the beans.

However, that doesn’t work nearly as well as he hoped, and Dirk dodged around his actual role in the company, and Todd is just fed up at this point, and wants to be put out of his misery. If he’s been the perso

“If you’re a detective,” He asks, “Why are you working at a news organisation? And not even in an investigative role.”

Dirk freezes. “I…” he pauses, looking both embarrassed and affronted. “It's a cover. Patrick thought it would be a good idea for me to be around here to get a feel of the place. Plus I could investigate employees to see if they were somehow involved. Only a few people were supposed to know what I did, and fewer still what I was actually doing here.”

“Why me, then?”

“You were interesting. You piqued my interest. I liked you.”

“We’d never met before.”

“I know, but in that simple meeting I felt it all. And it's all worked out great.”

Still not to the point. Still not a real answer. Still not the answer he needs to hear.

“Dirk, what is your cover? What do you do?”

Dirk bites his lip, and looks down, and Todd already knows, already knew, but he needs to hear the words. “I’m the Internet Security Officer.”

Shame, and betrayal coil inside him, and all of a sudden he can’t bear to look at Dirk. Because he’s always known.

Todd was specific enough in the emails, he suspects Dirk has been laughing about it all along. How much did Dirk think he could get him to go along with? How long did he think he could string him along? Was it all a set up?

“ _What the fuck?_ ” He breathes.

“Look, I’m sorry, the first time you guys got flagged, you just- you made me laugh, and then you were the brightest part of my day. I didn’t even know you were the same guy until the next day, with another flagged email. I recognised the name, but I didn’t place it. I wasn’t-“

“Why didn’t you just send us a warning the first time?”

“You guys were bright, and funny and-“

“Why not earlier than when we called your honour into question?”

“Because it hadn’t occurred to me how long I had let it go on-“ 

“Jesus, Dirk, you’ve been dragging me around for weeks knowing more about me than I think I’ll ever know about you, and, and-“

“I’m _sorry-_ “

“No, don’t _do_ that-“

“Todd."

Neither of them saw Farah approach. She looks somber, more so than has become usual since Lydia disappeared. His heart drops to his stomach.

“What?”

“Amanda- Um, I don’t know how to do this, _Jesus_ , how the fuck does Estevez deal with this-“

“Where is she?”

Farah eyes get shiny. “We don’t know. She’s disappeared, too.”

He wants to punch something, someone, whatever will fix this fucked up situation. His little sister, gone, possibly in the hands of whoever has Lydia, only she’s so much less valuable.

They’re capable of murder. Maybe not murder, Lux DuJour was ruled an accidental homicide, likely an accidental overdose of a tranquilizer. But his sister is in the hands of people who have killed before, no matter whether they meant to.

His throat tightens. “They took her?” He chokes out.

“We think so, look, no one could have seen this coming, don’t blame yourself-“

And he fucking explodes. “Yeah, no one could have seen that the girl you basically dangled as bait, might be kidnapped. I’m not blaming myself. I’m blaming you. I’m blaming Patrick Spring. I’m blaming Boy Wonder over here for not having fucking solved the case.” He stands. “I’ve had enough of this. We’re finding my sister, but if you think I am _ever_ speaking to you after this, you are sorely fucking mistaken.” He tells Dirk, and walks past Farah without a second glance.

She doesn’t deserve it. She put Amanda in danger. She made the mess he now has to clean up.

This is the worst way he can think of getting over his crush on her.

~

 **From:** d.gentl@springnews.org

 **To:** m.wilde@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Hey What Does It Feel Like When You Want To Fucking Die

Todd found out in the worst way and Amanda has gone missing and Farah’s upset but she's not upset she just seems angry and I have no idea what to do do you have any advice

 **m.wilde:** Do you need a hug?

 **d.gentl:** While I see that you're trying to be sympathetic what I really need right now is a breakthrough, like where Gordon Rimmer and his goons are keeping Lydia Spring and presumably Amanda

 **m.wilde:** I'm not sure I'm completely qualified to deliver that to you, I can help you try and work it out because you're obviously upset and no good work gets done when you're upset. What kind of tea do you like?

 **d.gentl:** English Breakfast. Thank you, Mona. I'll meet you in my office.

 **m.wilde:** I'll be there as soon as I can.

~

Amanda remembers the pain in the back of her head as she was walking to her car, and the split second of falling to the ground that followed. She remembers the sound the metal made hitting the back of her head, like it hit bone. She doesn’t remember seeing her attacker.

Now, when she wakes up, it’s dark, and she’s slumped uncomfortably against what feels like the interior of a car. There is a human body next to hers, and a sticky wetness in her hair around the spot she remembers being hit. She hopes she doesn’t need stitches.

Her hands and feet are tied. She’s blindfolded. She hopes beyond all hope that this is some sick prank being pulled on her, and that she hasn’t actually been kidnapped in a parking garage like her paranoia of being killed always said she would be.

The person beside her moves, and she gasps, and whimpers, hoping it’s not her attacker. She realises now she isn’t gagged, a mistake on the part of whoever kidnapped her. She gasps, ready to scream for her life, when a familiar voice beside her whispers: “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. They’ll just hurt you more.”

The scream dies in her throat. “Lydia?” She whispers, incredulous.

“Yeah.” The voice confirms, but it sounds dull, like even she isn't sure if she's Lydia anymore.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Amanda says.

“Thanks.” Still dull, still unsure, still tired and still scared.

“Do you know where we are?” Amanda asks, wriggling against her bonds to get to a more upright position.

“I don’t know, some parking garage, it’s dark, so it’s multilevel.” She feels Lydia shrugs as her shoulder brushes Amanda’s. “Kinda looks like the parking garage at Spring News Org.”

“I was abducted there.” Amanda comments, absently.

It dawns on them both at the same time. That they’re still there, for some reason.

“We could make a run for it.” Amanda says.

“Probably only one of us could, the other would have to create a distraction.” Lydia replies, and there's suddenly so much colour to her voice, colour that has a name. Colour that is hope.

“Alright, well, I feel, as the adult in this situation, I should be distracting and you should be escaping.”

“Are you kidding? You're way more capable than me, you should be going for help.”

“And leaving you behind so they can hurt you for being left behind? Not likely.”

“While I appreciate all that, do you even know to to get untied and get your blindfold off?”

“I'm sure there's a way to do that I've seen, briefly on the internet and stored away in my brain. But maybe, if you wouldn’t mind helping me?” She asks, and Lydia lets out something close to a quiet laugh.

When at last they are both free of their bonds, and clear on the plan, they look out at the tall, balding lackeys standing outside the door.

“Let’s raise some hell.” Amanda says, and they fling the door open, ready to do just that.

~

 **From:** f.pollo@springnews.org

 **To:** p.sprin@springnews.org

 **Subject:** EMERGENCY SIR

SIR PLEASE COME DOWN TO THE RECEPTION, YOUR DAUGHTER IS HERE.

~

Mona looks up when a red headed woman barges into the room. She stops dead when she sees Mona.

“Who the fuck are you?” She demands, in a gruff voice. Mona feels mildly alarmed, and wonders when Dirk will get back from the vending machines.

“Mona Wilder.” Mona says, holding her hands up, palms open, as if she were surrendering. “I work in advertisement.”

“Where's Dirk Gently?” The woman demands, stepping a bit closer. Mona takes a step back and bumps into Dirk’s wheely chair.

“In the cafeteria.” She replies.

“Okay.” The woman nods and starts back towards the door.

“Why are you looking for him? Has he done something wrong?”

“Lydia Spring just appeared, and she knows where that other kidnapped lady is. I'm gonna lock this door. You stay here, yeah?”

“What?” Panic suddenly invades her. “No! Wait!”

It's too late. The red headed woman in the security uniform closes the door and locks it with the master key.

~

 **From:** m.wilde@springnews.org

 **To:** k.adams@springnews.org

 **Subject:** A security guard just locked me in Dirk’s office????

Please send help??? The door will not open and there are no other exits.

~

Dirk is stopped halfway back to his office, many chip packets in his arms, by none other than Patrick Spring himself. He looks startled, if a bit bedraggled, a tiny bit crazed. His eyes light up like an obsessed man when he sees Dirk, and wraps his hands round Dirk’s upper arms.

“Lydia escaped.” Dirk drops all the chips.

“She what? How did she contact you?” He exclaims, grabbing at Patrick’s shirt as though that will make him tell him faster.

“They were keeping her in the bottommost parking garage.”

He doesn’t have the time to process how stupid that is. There’s only one important question now that Lydia’s safe. “Is that where Amanda Brotzman is?”

“Most probably.”

And then Dirk is just running.

~

 **From:** b.curli@springnews.org

 **To:** k.adams@springnews.org

 **Subject:** suspect

I locked some weirdo in Dirk Gently’s office. Follow this up once we’ve gotten rid of those kidnappers

~

Todd doesn’t really understand most of what Dirk is saying. Part of him is still utterly drooling over Dirk’s arms (he’s rolled up his sleeves over his elbows, and Todd is only a man, weak willed and weak minded) and part of him really, _really_ wants to punch him.

And he’s not even sure it’s justified anymore, but he’s sticking with his anger.

“I’m sorry, did you just say that Amanda is in the parking garage?” He asks, following Dirk quickly down the stairs.

“Yes, apparently that’s where Lydia’s captors moved to after we supposedly burned their house down. I feel as though that’s still in contention.”

“Their house was definitely burned down, Dirk.” He says, barely biting back an insult. “That has never been in contention. Why are they-“

“I don’t know why they decided in her father’s building was a good place to keep her, but what matters is that we know where Amanda is, and that Lydia is safe. Though, I do have a hunch that they wanted to be caught at this point. Better to be infamous than invisible, right? Anyway, I think that’s what they think.”

Todd knows enough about Dirk at this point to know he’s probably right. He’s oddly lucky with the amount of made up bullshit he spouts that comes true. He wants to argue anyway.

“Dirk-“ He starts to say, not even sure what he’s going to say, but as Dirk turns his head to look at him, while simultaneously turning the corner into the next flight of stairs, and crashes into Amanda’s filming crew.

The one in the red shirt immediately grabs onto the lapels of Dirk’s jacket. “You gotta help us find Drummer, man!” He cries and both Todd and Dirk stop short.

“Sorry, whom?” Dirk replies, looking over at the other three man.

“The boss.” The guy in the red shirt says, shaking at Dirk. “Little guy, black hair.”

“Amanda.” Grumbles the one with glasses.

“We know where she is. We think.”

“Where?”

“No, you're civilians, you need to stay out of this.”

“We have also done a lot of sketchy work. We know our way around a fight.”

“Hopefully we’ll catch them enough by surprise that there won't be a fight.”

Glasses grins. “Oh, I think the boys and I are more than willing to fight.”

And as if to illustrate his point, the three men behind him break into matching grins, and their grips tighten on the blunt instruments they hold aloft. Dirk smiles, a little uncomfortably. “Well then,” He says, “follow us!”

And he runs headlong down the next flight of stairs, leaving Todd to only shrug at the (almost definite gang of) men in front of him.

~

It all unfolds kinda like this - the parking garage is all closed off because no one ever goes down there, and no one fucking noticed when they disabled the cameras, so none of the kidnappers are actually really expecting it when Todd and Dirk arrive, toting a Gang of Four men with various instruments of destruction in their hands to beat up the men. Next is Farah Black, followed quite quickly by Detective Estevez (no one noticed him arrive, and no one actually knew he was actively working to find Lydia Spring until he entered the building.)

After that is Bart, holding a huge gun (god knows where she found it), with Ken right behind her, looking quite alarmed that he's been pulled away from his work, despite everything happening.

A scuffle unfolds, and it's quite hard to tell what's happening, because so many people are shouting, and there's so many gunshots, but, eventually, Gordon Rimmer and his gang of five weird bald dudes are suitably restrained and Amanda has been freed.

Farah takes the liberty of holding a loaded gun while Detective Estevez reads them their rights in a strained tone, because they shot him and it really fucking hurts. Bart and Ken left almost as soon as the fight was over. The four camera men and Amanda are seated near the door, tending to various bumps and bruises and Amanda's split lip.

Todd and Dirk, however?

Well, they're slumped in the elevator, trying to keep calm, because there's a fucking _pole_ through Dirk’s shoulder and neither of them are actually sure when and how it got there. So they're going to speed to the hospital before Dirk loses too much blood, and that's the end of that.

~

 **To:** p.sprin@springnews.org

 **From:** f.black@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Are Healthcare Benefits Necessary for a Temp?

Dirk Gently’s medical bills are very steep. Is there any way we can help him?

 **p.sprin:** I’m transferring money as we speak. Will $500,000 do?

 **f.black:** Patrick, I hate to say this, but your lack of understanding about money actually makes me wonder if you were born in the eighteen hundreds.

 **p.sprin:** That was a bit blunt

 **f.black:** Less than half that money would suffice.

~

The first thing Dirk is distinctly aware of, as he wakes up, is that his shoulder aches. The ache is dull, as though muffled by a blanket. Though, that doesn’t make sense, given that pain is a signal sent by nerve endings to his brain, and therefore cannot be muffled by anything so flimsy as a blanket. Nevertheless, he knows that if whatever is muffling the pain weren’t there, it would be more -what’s the word- stabby.

The next thing he knows, is that there are a lot of things that are beeping beside him, and the air smells uncomfortably sterile.

And there is a warm hand wrapped around his own, and steady, calming breathing a little to his left. When he opens his eyes, he finds the room unbearably bright and light, and he has to blink a few times to get used to it.

When his eyes adjust, it occurs to him that the only real reason there would be all that beeping, and the awful smell of antibacterial cleaning products, would be if he were in the hospital. And that would explain the pain in his shoulder, as well.

So, with all that explained away, he wonders now who it is that’s holding his hand. He has never woken in a hospital with someone by his side, so this is certainly a first.

And he can’t imagine who it would be, because he seems to have driven one of the only good friends - dare he say, the man he could imagine being the love of his life - away.

So it must be Mona. It has to be Mona, because of course it’s Mona, she’s the only person he hasn’t managed to damage beyond compare.

Todd’s sister may have been recovered, but he doubts that Todd will ever find it in his heart to forgive him for his omissions of truth - his strategic no-truthing? So he quashes the hope still blooming in his chest, blinks slowly, breathes deeply, and turns his head, slowly, ever so slowly, readying himself to see Mona.

And of course, because the universe is contrary, Todd lies still, except for steady breaths, asleep in the chair beside his cot. It’s truly extraordinary, feeling the warmth of his hand, hearing his breathing, seeing him there, slumped, and as beautiful as ever; and not truly believing that he’s really there.

Dirk shudders at the sudden realisation that the last time they spoke, Todd was still mad at him, and probably still is, even if Dirk did kind of rescue his sister. What will Todd say when he realises Dirk’s awake? Will he leave? Was he just being polite?

These are all questions Dirk is unequipped to answer. He settles back into his pillows, staring up at the ceiling, willing away the ache in his shoulder.

And he doesn’t know if it’s taking advantage, but he squeezes Todd’s hand and he imagines that Todd might want this, and he imagines them a life in which they are together and they are happy, and Todd wants to hold his hand all of the time.

It’s a nice thought, and he drifts back to sleep thinking it.

~

 **From:** f.black@springnews.org

 **To:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Excuse me, slacker, are you ever coming back to work?

I know you're recovering, and shit, and I respect that, but if I have to listen to Assistent tell the story of him walking directly into the trolley of sushi and live lobsters while on a date one more time I will literally burn the building to the ground.

 **t.brotz:** Honestly, my condolences. I'm coming back soon, but I'm pretty much on leave until Dirk’s out of hospital.

 **f.black:** So, like, another week or so?

 **t.brotz:** Pretty much. How's Amanda? I take it she's not back, yet, either.

 **f.black:** She's not, and the replacement for her is just…how do I say this? Completely uninspiring. Anyway, I think you should talk to her, yourself, instead of texting me to text her and ask how she is.

 **t.brotz:** And be forced to confront my feelings? What do you take me for? Someone with functional human emotions?

 **f.black:** Todd.

 **t.brotz:** I'll text her.

 **f.black:** Good.

 **t.brotz:** Send my love to Patrick.

 **f.black:** I will not.

~

The nurses keep saying that Dirk is improving and waking up for long periods of time to eat and talk, but whenever Todd visits, he's asleep. And Todd, as much of an asshole as he is, would never deign to wake him.

After all, he has to imagine that he’s in less pain when he is asleep, and he certainly looks like he isn’t .

But it’s hard not to feel like, somehow, he is being avoided.

Amanda comes back to work two weeks after her kidnapping. She avoids him for a further two weeks. He continues visiting Dirk, watching and reviewing movies, and going to AA meetings. Between everything, he has barely enough time to sleep.

Which means he has barely any time to mess things up further with Amanda. It occurs to him that that must be the silver lining of this whole situation.

They can’t avoid each other forever though.

They end up bumping into each other a lot, which Todd thinks is somehow the fault of the universe, and therefore, by extension, Dirk’s fault. It becomes an extremely prevalent theory when it starts to happen with increasing frequency.

So when he literally trips over her, going to visit Dirk, he takes it as a sign to suck it the fuck up, and talk to his sister.

“Uh, hi.” He says, from the floor. Amanda steadies herself on the wall.

“Hi,” she says, through gritted teeth.

“How are you?” Todd asks.

“Not great, at the moment.” Amanda responds, straightening up. “You?”

“Could be better.” He admits, getting to his feet.

She looks like she’s looking for somewhere to run. She looks more like she’s scared of the confrontation they have to have, than she is still angry about what he did. It sort of calms him to know she is just as scared as he is.

“Listen,” He starts, and she looks up at him with that anger he thought she was lacking in her eyes, so he hurries on to the next part of his apology before she can yell at him. “I’m sorry, for lying like I did. Work may have been stressful and busy, but if you were able to work it all around an arguably busier schedule, the fault wasn’t how busy I was, the fault was with me, for not making time for the promise I made you. I abused your trust, and I wouldn’t blame you for not taking me at my word ever again. Or even for never speaking to me ever again.” He says.

She looks less angry now. More like she’s thinking, probably considering what he’s said.

“I just want you to know that I’m doing better. I make it to meetings once a week, and I’m a month and a bit sober. And I plan to stay that way.” Todd clears his throat. “I’m committed.”

There’s a pause, silent between them,  with the bustling noise of the hospital around them. And then her voice breaks it, small, vulnerable, but not weak. Never weak.

“You know you hurt me, right?” She says.

“Yeah.”

She clenches her jaw, and her fists, and she looks down, and Todd knows that she’s blinking tears away. He doesn’t know whether he is really able to comfort her right now. It doesn’t stop him wanting to hold her close.

“You can't ever do that to me, again. If I let you back in my life, if I forgive you, you need to be honest with me.” She says firmly.

“I understand, Amanda.” He tells her.

“You're not forgiven. Not yet. But you're well on your way.” Her voice softens a bit, and she looks up, and he can see how vulnerable she is right now. How tired, and hurt, and haunted by the past few weeks she really is.

“Can I hug you?” He asks, hoping, against hope, that she will say ‘yes’.

“Very briefly.” So he does. He soaks it up, because he doesn't know when the next time he’ll be able to hug her will be. Amanda breaks first and he pulls away, immediately. “Are you going to see Dirk?”

“Yeah.”

“He's watching Greys Anatomy.” She laughs a little wetly, and he acts like he doesn’t see her brush a few tears from her eyes.

Instead he furrows his brows, because, of course, he was under the impression that Dirk sleeps most of the time now. “I haven't seen him awake in weeks.”

“That's weird. The nurses said he was pretty much out of bed, all the time.” Amanda shrugs. “You must come at inopportune times.”

He presses down the feeling that it was really just Dirk avoiding him. “I must be. Oh, hey, plot twist, Dirk was the cute guy, but he was _also_ the internet security officer.”

“No way.” Her eyes widen, and she smiles disbelievingly.

“Yes way.”

“Oh my god. That’s just your luck, isn't it.” She laughs, and he can’t help but smile at that.

“It is.”

Conversation trails off, and they are left to re-examine their conversation, steep in the desperate, hurting feelings they’re both nursing, and feel any playful banter they had drift away. The air feels thick and heavy, and he can see Amanda glancing up the hallway, planning her great escape, rocking up onto her toes, and then back down.

“Okay. Well. I'll see you around then, I guess.” She says slowly, and he nods.

“Yep. Bye, Amanda.” Todd says, and really hates that he has to give her an out when he so desperately wants her to stay.

“Bye, Todd.” Amanda replies, and with a short wave, she's gone.

Time to face the music, he guesses. Todd turns to look at Dirk’s hospital room door and takes a deep breath. If Amanda was right, chances are Dirk has been avoiding him, and Todd is just gonna have to deal with that if that was the truth.

He's watching Greys Anatomy on the big box TV in the corner of the ceiling. And he stops dead, a spoonful of orange jell-o in his mouth when he sees Todd enter. “Todd!” Dirk splutters, and nearly spits out his jell-o in surprise, hitting the pause button on the remote settled in his lap. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“You've been here for weeks.” Todd replies, warily, and lets the door swing shut, behind him. “Have you been avoiding me?”

Dirk grimaces, at this. “I wouldn't use the word ‘avoiding’,” he replies, but the tone of his voice suggests that he just doesn't want to participate in the conversation. “I'd use the phrase ‘tactical no-conversing’.”

“That's not a thing, Dirk.” Todd almost immediately shoots back.

His grimace deepens. “It could be.”

“ _Have_ you been avoiding me?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Why?”

“Because the last time you saw me you were still mad at me?” Dirk says, frustratedly.

“Does that mean I'm still mad now?” Todd questions.

He laughs without humour, at this. “I've known people who've held grudges for quite a long time.”

“I won't even ask.” Todd says to him.

“Best not to.” Dirk agrees, red in the cheeks. “Point is…I invaded your privacy for my own amusement, and then I hid it from you. I'm very sorry and will attempt to do better in future.”

“Did you take a seminar on apologising?” Todd asks, bewildered.

“No, I just tend to do it a lot, so I practice a myriad of different pleas for forgiveness.” He replies, with a shrug.

“...interesting move, but okay.” He says.

“This is usually the bit where you forgive me.”

“Do you _want_ me to forgive you?”

“I would like that very much, yes.” Dirk says, hastily.

Todd considers this, and then asks, “Are you going to go away, after this?”

“After what?” Dirk looks confused.

“After you get out of here? I was talking to Mona and she said that you said after cases like these you often find yourself far away, afterwards.” Todd looks down at his hands. “Are you going to leave?”

“I don't want to, but I really can't help where the universe takes me.” He sighs, heavily, obviously not liking the reality of it all. “That's just the flow of things.”

“But if you had a choice-” Todd tries.

“I _do_ have a choice.” Dirk interrupts.

“Then will you stay?” This stumps him. Does he really have a choice? Does he even _want_ to stay? Todd wouldn't, in his shoes, but, then again, Todd has found himself sitting by this man's hospital bed, hoping he'll stay.

Dirk raises his eyebrows and shrugs a bit. “I want to. I don't know if I will, but I want to.”

“Will you tell me when you make up your mind?”

“Of course.”

~

 **To:** t.brotz@springnews.org

 **From:** a.brotz@springnews.org

 **Subject:** dinner plans

When are we having a formal meet the boyfriend dinner? I need to tell Dirk about all the times we didn’t get flagged for you secretly crushing on him.

 **t.brotz:** Amanda, I hate to break it to you, but you already know Dirk.

 **a.brotz:** au contraire mon frére, I have not had the shovel talk with him, and therefore, I have not met him in an official capacity.

 **t.brotz:** if you scare him, you’re gonna have hell to pay

 **a.brotz:** we also need to have a shovel talk, because if you hurt him, I’m taking his side of the break up.

 **t.brotz:** that seems fair.

~

Todd specifically goes to the water cooler to talk to Amanda, because conversations at the water cooler can only be overheard, and not documented.

“Hey,” Amanda jerks her chin at him, taking a sip of her chilled water, “question, where the fuck did Ken go?”

Todd laughs. “You didn't hear?”

“Hear what?” She questions, faux-excitedly. He rolls his eyes, pouring his own chilled cup of water, so he has an excuse to talk to her, by the water cooler.

“He and Bart, the security guard, they ran off together.” Todd explains before taking a sip.

She stares at him. “Are you serious?” Amanda cries, drawing the attention of a few passersby who decide to take no notice of her, after that.

"I think this would be easier to explain if I just said they eloped, but they didn't." He says to her, matter-of-factly.

"What are they doing?" She prompts, taking another sip of water.

"I dunno, but Ken keeps posting pictures of the two of them on his Instagram with no caption except for where they are.” Todd pulls out his phone to show her the picture of them sitting beside what appears to be a swimming pool, wearing strange straw hats and sunglasses. “He posted one a few days ago from New Zealand, so I honestly have no idea what the fuck happened, but at least they're happy, right?"

“I mean sure.” Amanda agrees, nodding as she inspects the picture. “She looks good with shades on.”

Todd laughs, shortly, and raises his eyebrows. “Are you just saying that because you think she has murder in her eyes?” He asks.

“ _Am I wrong_?” Amanda replies.

People overhear, but they don't document, and that's better than getting fired for saying “well, fuck me” in an email to his sister.

~

 **To:** f.black@springnews.org

 **From:** l.sprin@springnews.org

 **Subject:** Is there room for another In Studio Reporter?

I’m certain you can understand that I am pretty traumatised from that experience. Is there any chance that there is a position I could fill in the slightly more secure studio?

 **f.black:** Your father has already created a role for you, don’t worry about it.

 **l.sprin:** Any thoughts on my replacement?

 **f.black:** We have someone who is more than up to the task.

~

Amanda holds the grey pleather jacket up against her chest, inspecting how it looks in the mirror. Martin is stationed behind her, leaning against a pillar.

“It’d probably look better if you put it on.” He says, gruffly. Then again, what doesn't he say gruffly?

Amanda gives him a bemused look, in the mirror. “Shouldn't you be finding yourself a nice grey denim vest or something?” She asks him, in return. He quirks an eyebrow below the frame of his glasses and gets to his feet, properly, wandering over to stand beside her.

“What's your thing with grey?” Martin asks.

She cocks her head to the side. “I think it’s nice. I should wear more grey.”

“Maybe not pleather on air?” He suggests, with another quirked eyebrow. Amanda sighs. He's probably right. She puts it back on the rack.

“Where’d the boys go?” She asks him, and they wander out from the maze of racks.

“Followed the sound of children yelling?” Martin suggests, shrugging and bumping their hips together. “They're probably in toys.”

“Why am I even surprised?” Amanda asks him, with a laugh. She’d taken them to Nordstrom to celebrate with her newest pay check and buy them some new clothes, but gotten distracted and lost half of them.

“Don't know.” He says, and they turn the corner to find Vogel wearing a Captain America mask and wielding a green lightsaber with Cross in a tutu holding a big plastic gun. There are toys in boxes scattered on the ground, and store attendants scattered around, acting as if they're awaiting a nuclear strike. Gripps is holding what looks to be a Beauty and the Beast dress up dress. The other two Rowdies are seated in motorised children's cars.

“On your mark, get set, go!” Gripps cries, and uses the dress as a flag. They howl and take off in the cars, trying to knock each other over with their chosen weapons.

Amanda and Martin share a look that is almost certainly _we’re gonna be banned for life_ and run after them.

~

 **To:** p.sprin@springnews.org

 **From:** f.black@springnews.org

 **Subject:** RE: Mona Wilder’s resignation

Sir, I don’t think the best thing for you to do, after an employee resigns to become an actress, is to invest half a million dollars in that ex employee.

 

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. We've been planning this fic since January, so we really hope you enjoyed it. If you'd like to find us, we are on Tumblr @cake-snake and @nose-coffee respectively.
> 
> Please leave us a comment telling us what you thought of this fic, because we'd love to know. Again, thank you!


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